


Remember their names

by dayinthelife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:55:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayinthelife/pseuds/dayinthelife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the asoiafkinkmeme. Prompt: Father. Mother. Robb. Sansa. Arya. Bran. He can't always remember their faces, so he makes himself remember their names.</p><p>(you aren’t scared anymore, or maybe you’re always scared, you stopped being able to tell the difference a long time ago; the only absolutes now are hunger and loss and resentment)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember their names

_mother._

you dig into the dirt with a stick, tracing a circle in the slushy muck. you’re alone but it’s nothing new, she often leaves you by yourself when she searches for food. she says you’re too noisy, and besides, you have your wolf to look after you.

_a voice, a song, soft and dreamy and halcyon, like a breeze ruffling through your hair on a hot summer’s day, she’d never let anything hurt you_

(but the summer you were born in is over, winter is here, harsh and unyielding, and these winds mean somber grey clouds, ashen snowfall and death; it’s just you three now, and even though she tries her best to protect you, puts her arm around you to shelter you in the night, it’s not the same, nothing is)

 

_father._

you push down and the branch cracks and sticks in the mud. frowning, you swallow and pick up another, returning to your task, to this ritual you have come to perform whenever you’re left on your own. father is always the hardest to remember, he left so long ago.

_a stern smile and a scratchy beard, strong arms that always lifted you when you asked_

(the arms that carry you now are thin and weak like yours, and more often than not you find yourself stumbling on cold, numb feet, never any closer to knowing your destination or understanding why you’re still alive when everyone else is dead)

 

_robb._

you bite your lip, not caring as the chapped skin breaks and you taste copper in your mouth. the taste reminds you of the night, loping through the trees quicker than you can in this half starved child’s body, chasing hares and deer and any animal you might find to its death. you feel a thrill whenever you catch them, the scent of their terror causing the heart of both the boy and the wolf to leap in excitement. it’s a reminder that something is alive (or at least, it was, until you found it).

_a hand ruffling your hair, a neck to wrap your arms around, curly, coppery hair (like yours, they’re your family, they’re yours) to twine your fingers through_

(but robb’s wolf is dead, so the only neck you wrap your arms around now is shaggy’s, fur matted and rough and the color of charcoal, of the smoke that left your home – your life – a ruin lifetimes ago; the dull throbbing pain of it is almost a comfort now: it means you’re alive, at least)

 

_sansa._

absentmindedly, you wipe your hands on your tattered pants, but it’s a wasted effort. the dirt and grime has become a part of you now, armor against the elements, against the thoughts and memories that stalk darkly in the shadows of your subconscious, endlessly nipping at one another’s heels, dogging your every footstep and threatening to settle in your heart if you stop moving. your stomach growls but you ignore it, you’ve become good at ignoring things since the fire.

_the smell of lemon and the taste of pastries, a soft delicate hand wiping at your mouth so mother and father don’t see the crumbs and chastise you for ruining your appetite_

(if you ate a lemoncake now you would probably retch at the sweetness; you’ve become accustomed to the bland taste of acorn paste and stringy meat, but the supply is running low, and you don’t remember what it’s like to not be constantly wondering if you’ll have enough food to last the next two days, but you’d still eat a lemoncake, you think, even if it made you vomit, just to taste your life from before and feel like she’s there and you’re home)

 

_arya._

a twig snaps and you hear the crunch of snow behind you. snarling, you pivot, grasping the stick in your small hands and brandishing it in front of you. you feel the blood pulsing in your veins, igniting your body for an attack. even before you were always more fire than ice, litigious and fervent in everything you did.

_an enthusiastic laugh, a sticky hand grabbing yours and pulling you along for some adventure, to the godswood or the kitchens or the crypts, but you needn’t ever worry because she’d be there to pick you up if you fell or hug you if you were scared_

(you aren’t scared anymore, or maybe you’re always scared, you stopped being able to tell the difference a long time ago; the only absolutes now are hunger and loss and resentment)

 

_bran._

but it’s only her returning. she smirks at you, looking at your stick, and you feel your body relax. shaggy appears a few yards away, sauntering toward the two of you, letting out a howl, and you feel it reverberate in your own throat. his muzzle is dark and wet and you know he’s made a fresh kill, wonder if he brought some back like he always does.

_blue eyes glistening with tears; you can taste them on your tongue, salty like the sea that he’s never seen; whispered promises, quiet reassurances ruined by the way he clutches at you, by the finality of the look in those blue eyes, like he’ll never see you again_

(you aren’t sure if you’ll ever see him again, but you know he’s alive, you can feel summer on placid, quiet nights, when you feel a warmth in your heart and a yearning howl creeping up shaggy’s throat and sometimes it’s enough to know that he’s out there, your brother, he’s alive and maybe one day you’ll make it back to one another and he can make good on those promises he made long ago)

 

_jon._

the wind stirs and you hear the sound of hooves, something you haven’t heard since before, and a man emerges from the brush atop a great white horse, but it isn’t a horse, not like any you can remember. atop its head is a silvery horn, and its eyes are a purplish color like you’ve never seen before. shaggy growls and osha moves in front of you, but the man puts his hands up and the horse – not horse, unicorn, you remember the word from somewhere – whinnies. shaggy approaches it cautiously, sniffing at it with a wagging tail. he looks at you, emerald eyes glinting, and you feel a sense of relief. the man says some words to osha and after a while she turns to you, crouching in the snow with a small smile on her face.

 _dark hair, a sheepish smile and a reluctant touch, he was never the one to initiate and you always had to run to him, to let him know it was okay, he was family, he was loved, he was_ home

(you don’t know where home is anymore, if you’ll ever find it again or if it’s just a memory that will elude you until your death, but you have a feeling buried deep inside, a hope that maybe one day you’ll find it again, find _them_ again, and you won’t feel so cold and empty and angry anymore)

as this strange man lifts you onto the unicorn’s back, you recite the names again in your mind. _mother, father, robb, sansa, arya, bran, jon._ it is all you have left of home, of before, and you cling to it as you do this strange beast’s snowy mane, a litany of desperation, melancholy, and hope.


End file.
